


The Purity of their Art

by leafingbookstea, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post Season 3, but this is not about Phrack, implied established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafingbookstea/pseuds/leafingbookstea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: Concetta comes to Phryne for help...





	The Purity of their Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OracleofDoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleofDoom/gifts).



> There is a racial slur in this fic, but it is not directed at anyone, only implied. The Italians did not have it easy in Australia, particularly during the Depression, and it is relevant to the challenges the characters face in this story.

His fingers danced on the fingerboard while the bow glided across the strings. His eyes were closed, at one with the music. Here, with this instrument, he was free to show everything he felt: love, fear, anguish, and joy.

She watched him from the doorway. She loved to hear him play, just for her. But she also knew that others should hear him; he had a gift to share with the world. She closed her eyes and leaned to one side, letting the music carry her away.

_“Sembri un angelo in piedi lì, il mio Tesoro”_ he said in his rich voice. He looked at her in a way no man ever had before, as though he couldn’t believe such a woman as her even existed, let alone said she loved a simple man like him. Fate had smiled on him the day he met her.

“ _Grazie, amore mio_ , but you play like one.” She replied as she opened her eyes and held her hand out to him. He put down the bow and brought her fingers to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the knuckles.

“I look forward to the day my Nonna’s ring is on this finger,” he said, rubbing the third finger absently.

“I want that too. Giovanni. We can get married now, the restaurant is doing well, even when times are difficult for so many others.”

“I am an old-fashioned man, _mio Tesoro_ , I want to take care of you, not the other way around.”

“I know. I also want to help.”

“I don’t know that you can, _cara_. The Australians, they let Italians come to their country, but they don’t treat us like equals when we are here. They call us ‘dagos’ and leave us the crumbs. We must do for ourselves.” Giovanni set down his cello, stood and began pacing. She knew the more he paced, the more worked up he would get. She had seen it before. He was never violent, but he would get angry. Particularly over things he couldn’t control.

“ _Amore_ , please. You know how your temper affects your playing. Please, sit with me?” She took his hand again and sat down with him on the bench in front of the restaurant. She sat quiet, still and looked at his face. At first, Giovanni’s glance darted everywhere: her hands holding his, the far end of the restaurant, the waves in her dark chocolate hair, out the window to the street, her swanlike neck, his cello, her eyes. _Her eyes_ , he thought, _I can always find my calm in her eyes_.

“You are a lighthouse to me.” His voice was calmer now. “I can find my way home with you, my light, to guide me.”

“You speak very pretty words, Giovanni,” touching his face with her hand, “but the actions are not there. You say I help you, but you won’t let me do anything. Please, let me help you?”

“I don’t know how you can, mio Tesoro. But you are welcome to try. You know a conductor and you don’t tell me perhaps?” He gave her a crooked smile.

“No, I know no one like that. But perhaps, I know someone who can help.”

* * *

“Miss Fisher? Do you remember me?” Concetta stood in the foyer at Wardlow, uncertainty clear on her face.

“Yes, Concetta, I remember you. Come in.” Phryne gestured to the parlour. “Please call me Phryne. I feel we have a special connection.”

“I think we do as well.” Concetta agreed with a knowing look.

“How can I help you?”

“I am engaged to be married, Phryne. This is a man that I choose, not _mi familia._ He is a kind man and he loves me. His name is Giovanni Zunino. He is a musician. He plays the cello.”

“Is he any good?”

“Si, Phryne, very good. He played in the orchestra for an opera house in Genoa.”

“Why did he leave Italy?”

“His brother, Lucca, he got into some trouble with the man they call Il Duce, Signore Mussolini. You have heard of this man?”

“Oh yes, I have heard of him.” Even back in England, Phryne had heard of him. 

“Now, Giovanni and his brother come to Australia to be safe, but there is no work for him. When I met him, he was on the street, playing his cello for coins. I tell him I have the restaurant, and he plays there many nights, but he wants to make his own money. He says we cannot marry until he can take care of me. He says he wants to be have his music and me and that is all he needs.”

“I am a patron for the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. I could speak to the director on his behalf…”

“No, Phryne,” Concetta interrupted, “that is too much to ask of you. Besides, he auditioned with them when he first arrived. They do not take him because he is Italian.”

“Ah! Now I understand.” Phryne knew one of the directors had some very nationalist views; probably the one for which Concetta’s sweetheart had auditioned. “They currently have two conductors and that may make all the difference. I do want to hear him play before I speak to anyone, of course.”

“Of course. Mille grazie! I did not expect this kind of help.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t help you because of Jack?”

“No,” Concetta hesitated, “well perhaps. It was a risk coming here, you could have said no or refused to see me. But I had to try.”

“You love Giovanni very much, it seems.” 

“Si,” Concetta said, with a growing smile, “And he loves me. He listens to me.”

“That is wonderful, Concetta! You deserve happiness, especially happiness you chose, after everything you have been through. I would be glad to help. What night may I come to the restaurant to hear him play?”

“He will play again on Thursday. You come about 8 o’clock and you can hear him. When you come, please don’t tell him why you are there. I don’t want him to get … “

“I understand. You don’t want to get his hopes up. I will be the soul of discretion.”

“Grazie, Phryne. Mille Grazie.” Concetta took Phryne’s hand in hers and squeezed it lightly.

“Don’t thank me until I hear him. And if I like what I hear, then I may come back with someone who can do something about his situation.”

“Once you hear him play I think you will …” Concetta replied with a gentle laugh.

“Phryne, are you home? I found a copy of the book Jane wanted....” Jack walked into the parlour from the front door, hat and coat still on. He stopped at the sight he never thought he would see. 

“Hello Gianni … uh, Jack …” Concetta stood, smoothing her dress as she did so.

“Concetta? Wh … what … are you doing here?” His mouth held that slight smile Concetta remembered, but it didn’t give the same thrill to her heart to see it.

“I would ask the same question,” She gave a quick glance in Phryne’s direction “but I think I know. “

Jack face reddened, but he tried to cover it. “You are well, I hope?”

“I am, Jack, grazi. I must go.” She turned back and put out her hand, “Thank you for seeing me, Phryne. “ She grabbed her coat and handbag and closed the front door softly behind her.

Jack was stunned. “Phryne? When did she start calling you Phryne?” was all he could think to say.

Phryne gave him a small smile, “When I asked her to. You know, Jack, you are the only one who didn’t call me Phryne after I gave you leave. Others are less reticent. “

* * *

“Bernard, you must hear him. He plays as though his soul dwells in his fingers.”

“Phryne, darling, it is rare that you use such effusive language to describe anyone. Of course, I will hear him.”

* * *

The heartbreak and melancholy were there. Her tears flowed unchecked. The beauty of his playing and the pathos of the music: Dvorak Cello Concerto. 

From his fingers flowed the pain of leaving his homeland, the hope when he stepped off the boat in a new country, the sting of insults hurled at him, and finally, the day when found his lighthouse, his Concetta.

Concetta stood in the wings and applauded at the end of his performance. Giovanni stood to take his bow and looked at her before looking at the audience. He caught sight of a flash of light: his Nonna’s ring on her hand. The light telling him _this was his wife, this was his home._

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I listened to while I wrote this fic: [the great cellist Jacqueline du Pre playing the Dvorak Cello Concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_yxtaeFuEQ). This is a rare recording and as often happens when this piece is performed, a string breaks in the middle of the performance. Such is the intensity of the emotion in the music.
> 
> The title is a quote from Pablo Casals, another great cellist: “I implore my fellow musicians throughout the world to put the purity of their art at the service of mankind in order to unite all races.”
> 
> And lastly, thank you QuiltingMom for the cellist. Not what you thought was it?


End file.
